


August

by NotYourHoney



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley has long hair, Dirty Talk, Evil Gabriel, Fluff, I will be adding tags as I go, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Pining, Smut, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Tumblr Prompt, lil bit of period typical homophobia, smut is in ch6 and warnings are before the chapter, thank u mr neil for my lyfe ive never wanted to write a tragic love story so bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-06-26 05:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19761334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotYourHoney/pseuds/NotYourHoney
Summary: "If I only love you, my dearest lord,That which you love in yourself, do not scornBecause one spirit has fallen in love with another." -MichelangeloPrince Crowley's pregnant mother passed away under mysterious circumstances. As he uncovers more of the mystery and the sinister affairs of his kingdom, he copes with a decades long love for the local bookkeep, Aziraphale. A Royalty!Good Omens AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Tumblr Prompt by @Assiraphales: 
> 
> au where crowley is the prince of a powerful kingdom that has fallen for the local bookkeep aziraphale, who the royal court thinks is a sleazy good for nothing who wants to manipulate crowley for personal gain, but in reality aziraphale is apathetic to politics, and is absolutely oblivious to the fact that crowley is Head Over Heels for him 
> 
> Started as a drabble and turned into a murder mystery what can i say -shrug emoji-

Candles illuminated the space on the desk in front of Prince Crowley. Books of politics and war, spread eagle and a little worn, covered the surface of his desk, as well as contracts and trade delegations. A dark bottle of wine accompanied the paperwork. He worried at the end of a pen, aware of the occasional drop of ink onto the paper, while he considered a particularly lenient trade deal in front of him. 

Someone knocked at the door of Crowley’s study. He sat up straight and put the pen down. 

“Come in.” 

The heavy oak door creaked open. Two people stood at the door; royal guard, and behind him, the village bookkeep.

“Good evening!” Aziraphale beamed at Crowley, and he drew in a sharp breath. A white cloak enveloped him and he held a heavy book bag.

“‘Evening, Aziraphale.”

“Let me know if you require assistance, sir.” The guard shut the door and walked away. Aziraphale sat in a velvet chair next to Crowley. 

“Well, I searched around quite a bit for that book you were looking for, but I did eventually find it. I also found a few other pieces I think you’ll like very much if you enjoyed Witman’s work.” Aziraphale began pulling thick books out of a satchel, talking about the stories he’d found. 

Crowley watched, a ring dazzled hand perching his chin on his desk. Aziraphale waved his hands as he spoke. Such lovely hands. 

Aziraphale pushed a red leatherbound book in front of him. “Now, this one’s in Greek or something, but I imagine that’s something they teach Princes. It was the only copy I could find in such a short span of time.”

“Yes, not a problem,” murmured Crowley, examining the cover. He peered up at Aziraphale. “I suppose it wasn’t easy to find this.”

“It never is. But for you, my dear, I can make anything work.” 

Crowley smiled, sharp and with teeth. “Call me sweet things a little more and I’ll make it all easier for you.” 

Aziraphale laughed. Crowley couldn’t keep the smile off his face. 

“Oh, you— I certainly shouldn’t call you that when you drink, now should I. Wouldn’t want to offend my Prince.” 

Crowley laughed this time. “Alright, first off, you know I hate it when you call me that.”

Aziraphale reddened, guilt flashing his face. “Force of habit.” 

“Right, and second,” Crowley continued, as he walked over to a cabinet where he kept his wine and glasses, “I haven’t drank, I was waiting for you.” He sat back in his chair and poured the wine into two crystal glasses. If his hands shook a little when Aziraphale clapped in delight, he didn’t let it show. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes as he sipped his drink. He leaned back in his chair. Wrapped in white and beautiful as he was, Crowley thought, he must be holy. He considered the flavour. His eyes darted around behind his eyelids. He swallowed, and he moaned in delight at the flavour. 

Crowley knocked back half his glass. He could barely taste the wine. Mouth dry and heart pounding, he set the glass down. 

They spoke for a while. Aziraphale told him about philosophy and ornithology, and Crowley complained about the new guards assigned to him because someone sent the king a box of dead spiders. Aziraphale would listen in fascination. He laughed at the funny bits and stuck his tongue out when he heard that the box broke. The warmth from the candles and the laughter between them filled the room. Crowley couldn’t stop himself from gazing at Aziraphale as he delved into his next story about a bird he’d rescued with a broken wing. His heart ached at how Aziraphale fashioned a splint out of old book spines. He could hear the rush of his pulse in his ears.

Thud, thud, thud.

“Open up!” 

Oh.

Aziraphale frowned and opened his eyes, and Crowley got to his feet to open the door. Behind it, Beelzebub fumed. He pointed a long fingernail inside the room and hissed, “What is he doing here?”

Crowley didn’t want to hear it. He’d heard it yesterday and last week. He didn’t like to hear it, and he certainly did not have to. 

“Lord Beelzebub, did you really come all the way out of my father’s chambers because you were worried about me? How unusually thoughtful.” 

“Bastard.”

“Not a very nice thing to call me. That’d be any of your children, if you really think about it.” 

He enjoyed watching Beelzebub’s scowl set deeper and deeper. “Your father, his Highness, has requested that you meet with him. Now.”

“That all? Horrible timing, that man.”

Beelzebub glared past him. Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide open, his jaw dropped. Terror. No one was meant to see him.

“Keep the vermin out of this palace, Crowley.” 

Crowley beamed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He shut the door and sauntered back to his seat. Next to him, Aziraphale trembled in fear. He watched for a moment. The wine in his glass rippled with the tremble of his body. 

“I was told not to return. You made me come back. You sent escorts.”

Last month, Crowley made the mistake of finally spending enough of the palace budget on books that the royal court assigned the label of Swindling Thief to Aziraphale. In fact, the books themselves weren’t expensive, if one bought a reasonable amount. As it was, Crowley could keep the shop afloat on his own with how often he sent for texts. Wasn’t his fault. He wanted to see Aziraphale.

“Come on…” 

“What are they going to do to me?” 

“You want to know what they’ll do?” Aziraphale gasped and nodded. He set his drink down. 

“Yes!” 

Crowley smiled. He leaned closer to Aziraphale. 

“Well,” he whispered, “First of all, they’ll meet.”

Aziraphale leaned in to hear Crowley better. 

“Then, of course, they’ll discuss it. Bad book man, they’ll say, not listening to us. They’ll be positively constipated about it. And then...” 

Aziraphale gasped. Crowley rested a hand on his thigh, smug in the eyes. 

“... They’ll go snog in my father’s room for the rest of the day. The end.” 

Aziraphale’s expression dropped. He stared. Crowley could feel gentle breaths against his face from his parted, confused lips. 

“You have a strange way with words for someone who spends their day delegating war torn nations,” he remarked. No malice touched his words and he began to smile. 

Crowley leaned forward to whisper by Aziraphale’s ear. “Oh, I’ve got quite the mouth on me, I assure you.” 

Crowley couldn’t see Aziraphale roll his eyes, but he knew that he did. He leaned back and Aziraphale fixed him with a smug expression. “You wouldn’t be stalling if you did.”

“... Stalling?” Crowley mumbled, nervous. “Stalling for what?”

“Why, to go see your father. What else would I be talking about?” 

“No, nothing else. You’re right, then.” Crowley drank the second half of his wine and got to his feet. His stomach felt filled with stones as the weight of his anxiety plummeted. “I really should see him, ‘s late.” 

Aziraphale stood up and picked up his satchel. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yes, yes, all fine. I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll come see you instead.”

Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley’s fingers twitched by his sides, and his heart hurt again. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Goodnight.”

“‘Night.”

Aziraphale let himself out. The door clicked and Crowley to a shuddering breath. 

He stared at his desk and collected himself. He smoothed his hair and removed his sunglasses for a moment. He placed a hand over the books. No books more beautiful and well preserved books existed in all of England. 

Kings and queens heard of his collection and gifted him rare books as a nudge towards deals or a princess. They gathered dust in his library, but the ones Aziraphale brought him remained in a bookcase in his room. Often, Aziraphale would visit simply to read to him and share a bottle of wine, laying in the bed with Crowley’s head in his lap. He read all sorts of things to Crowley. 

As for Crowley himself, he hadn’t read a book in years.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> king gabriel is a dick and crowley is rebellious... what a surprise

A stench not unlike that of vinegar and rotting meat filled the air. Crowley clenched the small fish knife in his hand. He scratched at the empty plate in front of him in an attempt to drown out the screams and vile laughs around him. 

Skrrrch. Skrrrch. He loathed royal dinners. 

He tapped his foot under the table and looked up at the clock. A little while more.

He hated that this was meant to be the dinner to honour the anniversary of his mother’s death. Queen Lael, passed away peacefully in her sleep while with child, a gentle soul, would have recoiled at the sight before her.

All around the long oak dinner table, lords and ladies and all manner of noble folk were binge drinking and shoveling food into their mouths. Ladies had rouge smeared around their mouths and hair on end from the night of snogging and other non-mourning activities, and the men all had a crazed look in their eyes that only incredibly confident and absolutely wasted people could have. It was loud. The room was dimly lit with half-burnt candles in clusters along the table. Spiced meats and ale that had all been sitting out in a warm room for too long steeped in the air like rotting fruit left out in the sun. To his right sat King Gabriel, a widower in mourning, draped in eccentric furs, gold chains, and drunk women. 

“And for that moment onwards, my lady dared not ask how we break the horses!”

Laughter, tinny and forced, but god awfully loud, erupted around him. A bit of drool dripped off his chin. He slurped from a bottle of something dark. 

Crowley glanced up at the clock. A minute or two more, and he could leave. The servants would come in to clear off the table and refresh drinks, and he would slip out in the crowd. He could feel Gabriel’s judgemental eyes on him, but he knew that in the morning, he wouldn’t remember.

Crowley had a plan tonight. He was going to see Aziraphale, and he was going to tell him that he loved him.

He’d come to the decision late last night, after Aziraphale had gone home. It was a messy, unthought out plan, but so were most of his ideas. He figured that it would come to him as he went. 

Never mind that every time he spoke to the book keep, he fumbled the words in his mouth like he’d swallowed butter. Never mind it. 

The noise around him pounded on. Servants finally began to file in. Crowley slithered away from his seat and pulled his black hood over his face as he slipped out of the dining hall. 

The silence of the hallway buzzed in his ears. He scrubbed at his eyes and crumpled against the wall, toying with his ring. It was gold and resembled feathers. It had belonged to his mother. 

Crowley glanced up at the clock at the end of the hall. If he left now, he could be gone for an hour before anyone knew. 

~~~

Crowley was very particular about his horse. Bentley, who had been gifted to him by a flirtatious prince of the Ottoman empire, was a jet black stallion. He was the biggest and most well trained horse in all the country. He was brushed and clean and walked every day to keep him agile. No one dared to ride him but Crowley. The last to attempt that had been stomped to death. 

Crowley approached the horse’s stall. He pulled up the lever and shushed the horse. He had wrapped himself in a black cloak, thicker than his evening robes. Once he was satisfied that the horse was calm and still, Crowley walked him out of the stall and onto the trail that would take him into town. The staff properly bribed and his destination in mind, he slipped on and gave a little kick to Bentley’s sides. 

Off they went, silent in the night. 

~~~

Aziraphale had closed up his store hours ago. He was currently wrapped in a thick wool blanket by the fireplace, a book on the anatomy of eagles in hand. He wasn’t reading, however. He had just begun to doze off, warm from the fire and the wine, when a rapping at the door downstairs jolted him awake.

“I- We’re closed!”

The annoyed rapping continued. A smile burst across his face. Of course he knew who it was. 

Aziraphale got to his feet and put the book down on his sitting chair. He hurried down a narrow flight of stairs to the front door of his bookshop. Locks were unlocked and he swung the door open. 

“Crowley! How delightful to see you, come in!”

“Mmf. Tied up Bentley around back, if that’s alright.” He stepped inside and Aziraphale shut and locked the cold out. His face was red from the cold, and a moment later, from the joy on Aziraphale’s face. 

Right. He had come here for a reason. 

“It always is. Can I get you something to drink?”

Crowley pulled off his heavy cloak and hung it on a hook behind the door. “Got anything that isn’t brown?” 

Aziraphale’s smile was warm and still. “I’ve got just the thing.” 

Crowley followed him back up the narrow staircase and flopped onto the overstuffed couch, so covered in blankets and shams that the couch was no longer visible. He played with a loose thread on a white throw. His hands shook. Break the ice, he thought to himself. Ease into it.

“Do you remember when we were children,” he began, “Maybe ten or eleven, and we sneaked into the kitchen, and we—”

“The ale? Yes, how can I forget.” Aziraphale had a bottle and two long stemmed glasses in hand. He shuddered at the memory and sat next to Crowley. “The crystal glasses, oh the mess… You were quite an influence on me. Still are.” 

Crowley sputtered through his own breathing and sat straight. He took an offered glass from Aziraphale and sipped it too fast. “Wasn’t all bad,” Crowley muttered. 

“Oh, I never said it was, dear. It was mostly very good.” He smiled, cheeky. “Mostly.”

Crowley ducked his head. Aziraphale, oblivious to his torture, poured himself a drink. 

“So what brings you here tonight, anyways? It’s quite late.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“No.” Aziraphale looked at him with that same calm smile, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that shut Crowley up at once. “I didn’t say that I don’t enjoy having you over late. It’s just unusual.”

Crowley gulped down another mouthful of wine. “Oh, just the norm,” he said quickly. “Royal stupidity and all that. I mean, really, would my mother have wanted a drunken gorge fest to commemorate her life?”

Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley’s arm. Crowley gasped just under his breath, and Azirphale said, “I don’t think she would have wanted that at all.” A pause, then, “I know you miss her dearly.” 

They both didn’t speak for several moments. The crackle of the fire filled the mourning silence, Crowley staring into his red and Aziraphale stroking his arm. 

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Tell me about what you’re reading.”

Aziraphale squeezed his arm and stood up, and Crowley could breathe a little easier. 

It wasn’t that Aziraphale made him feel uneasy. He felt uneasy around Aziraphale, and that was different. 

It had begun when he was sixteen. He would lay awake at night just thinking about him and replaying their interactions over and over again in his head. He knew what it was back then, but he just couldn’t bring himself to say it. Not when Aziraphale so clearly didn’t feel the same way. Not when he had so much power over how Crowley felt and behaved, even years later. 

Aziraphale was chirping animatedly about the anatomy of various birds and reptiles, as per the last few books he had been reading. Crowley wasn’t listening very closely, but he was paying very close attention to the way that Aziraphale’s eyes lit up and his hands waved around to describe the books. 

“And in the East, they have the Mamba snakes, the black and green, and they’re absolutely murderous snakes with no chance of survival. I can hardly imagine, and the size of them!” 

Crowley smiled and slipped off his glasses. He sipped at his wine and he listened to Aziraphale. He learned a great deal about snakes, and then medicinal herbs that they didn’t have in England, and he made a mental note to see to bringing Aziraphale a pot of the Egyptian mint tea they’d received. He would enjoy that. To see his face light up...

“Crowley, are you listening?” He snapped out of his daze and looked up at Aziraphale, a little embarrassed. 

“Yes, just thinking about… tea. Go on, what were you saying about the erm, poppy seeds?”

Aziraphale smiled. It was the same smile from before. He knew warriors that had battled their entire lives, yet could not smile in such a terrifying, ardent, patient way. He squirmed under the stare. Aziraphale could smile like a knife.

“Never mind it, dear.”

Even his tone was sharp. The words were a gentle warning. Aziraphale did not like being ignored.

Crowley reached for the wine bottle, something to do, and Aziraphale beat him to it. Crowley looked up. He topped off both their drinks. He took his time, never breaking Crowley’s gaze, as he sipped the drink and considered it in his mouth for a moment or two. Then he swallowed, and Crowley cleared his throat and shifted his legs. 

“Tell me, why are you really here? You could have come in the morning, but you decided to come now.” Aziraphale looked completely unbothered, leaning back into the couch and cradling his second glass of wine. “You are my friend and I can tell something is bothering you. Won’t you tell me?”

Crowley wished he could scream and cry. He wished he could just spit it out and be bold and just kiss Aziraphale so deeply that they melted into one. He had done it with others, and it was easy and smooth, but he tripped up around Aziraphale and even under his soft concerned gaze, Crowley felt breathless. 

He had been planning this for months.

“I, erm, I wanted to give you back the book I had borrowed from your private collection.”

He couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

If Aziraphale looked a little deflated, Crowley didn’t see, because he was rummaging in a leather satchel for the book. He got up from the couch all too quickly. “I’ll place it on the desk, then. I really should be heading back soon, anyways, before they notice I’m gone. Wouldn’t want them to come looking for me, or anything like that.” He was rambling and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop. He turned back to Aziraphale, and only now did he notice the look on Aziraphale’s face. 

“You have to go now?”

He looked like a kicked puppy. Crowley nodded. 

“Well… Let me walk you downstairs.” Aziraphale stood up and swayed a little. He had been drinking before Crowley came, and no matter how well he handled his liquor, he was definitely a little drunk. 

Crowley was across the room in two steps and held out a hand to steady him. “Woah… No, you’re going to sleep here.” 

“Sleep?”

“Well, you can’t be walking downstairs.” Aziraphale leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Crowley’s shoulders. He smelled like wine and paper and the dried wildflowers he had been pressing earlier. 

Aziraphale had all but collapsed onto him and tucked his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck. He murmured into his skin and the breath felt burning hot against Crowley.

“Why must you leave me so soon, my dear boy,” he mumbled, and Crowley helped him lay back on the couch. He arranged pillows and shawls around him. 

“I’ll return tomorrow, angel.” He pushed white curls away from Aziraphale’s forehead, and Aziraphale reached up to pat his cheek. He beamed. His eyes twinkled in that manic way of his. 

“Angel…? I’ll look forward to it, then.”

Aziraphale’s hand lingered just a bit longer than it needed to. He said nothing of it. Crowley stood, breathing heavy and silent, to collect his sunglasses. When he turned back to Aziraphale, he was softly snoring. A shadow of his grin was still on his lips. 

Crowley pressed a hand to his cheek. Aziraphale didn’t stir. Then he pulled his hand away and stared down at it. Before he could think any more, he walked back to the desk and placed something on top of the book, and then hurried down the narrow flight of stairs. He grabbed his cloak, shut the door behind himself, and rode Bentley back to the palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work is not Beta'd. I am currently looking for a Beta. If you would be interested, comment a way that I can contact you so that we can arrange something.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to do my best to post at least a chapter a week. I'm quite invested in this story and AU!

A week passed. The world as Crowley knew it held its breath. He dared not think about the last time he saw Aziraphale without wanting to bash his own head in. He wasn’t a coward. He told himself this every morning and night. He was just preserving their relationship, or easing into it, or thinking of the right words. Sometimes, he would wake up in the darkness of the night, panting and filled with regret. He cried too, but he would never admit that.

He busied himself with his work. He signed documents and reviewed laws. He heard complaints every day for an hour from the public and sometimes paid attention. He smoked a dark pipe all day. He tried once to read a book Aziraphale gifted to him of Slavic fairy tales, but grew anxious after a few lines and tossed it to a corner of his room.

On the eighth day of sulking, Crowley decided that he would visit Aziraphale and act as though he felt fine, and bring him the tin of Egyptian tea. They could drink wine and Aziraphale could read him a book about birds or something. He lost himself in thought about eagles and vultures and woodpeckers and their lovely talons.

“Your father requests your presence for dinner,” said a maid from the door of his study. He squinted up. His eyes were red and strained behind his lenses. Nighttime had fallen hours ago.

“Yes,” said Crowley under his breath.

“A stressful week, Your highness?” She meant well. He tried to smile. 

“They always are.” 

The maid scurried off, and Crowley spent a few moments examining his reflection before a golden mirror. A black ribbon held his hair back at the base of his neck. There was a black stripe of ink on his cheek that didn’t budge even when he rubbed it with his thumb. He smoothed his shirt and left the room. 

Wine red carpet lined the hallway to the dining room. The dining room itself was a grand and dim room with no doors and a wall lined with windows. A half dozen hallways surrounded the circular room. It differed from the banquet hall, where his mother’s distasteful memorial had been held, because the table seated twenty people instead of seventy and the king didn’t pretend to enjoy food here. He just drank his spirits at night. Crowley silently approached the room. 

Lord Beelzebub and King Gabriel spoke in hushed voices that echoed in the room. They hadn’t seen Crowley yet. Lord Beelzebub wore evening clothes that hung and draped off their body. Beelzebub sat far too close to the King, who gazed at them with unabashed desire. Crowley made a face. He never actually tried to listen to them. Usually, what he heard between them made him gag. Best to not interrupt, he thought. He could always return later, or pretend to be asleep. 

“I think the dinner was just the thing we needed,” said Lord Beelzebub. King Gabriel grinned, pleased. 

“Oh, you’ve got no idea. She would’ve hated it.” 

Crowley frowned. He felt that buzzing in his ears that only children watching grown ups whisper behind not quite closed doors felt, as though they had stumbled upon a conversation for fully closed doors only. He stood perfectly still.

“Serves her right,” Lord Beelzebub snorted. 

“Can you imagine a second heir? I wouldn’t have been able to cope. One bastard was more than enough.” 

“Disposing of her was an excellent idea, my King.”

The world became soundless. Not a peaceful silence. This silence was violent. This silence was murderous. 

Crowley didn’t feel himself stumble. His knees just seemed to buckle on their own. Nor did he hear his own gasp. He didn’t know if he felt more surprised that the two whipped around to gawk at him so fast, furiously guilty, or at how quickly he turned and ran. His whole body felt numb. His actions became a blur. The call for the guards sounded like static in his ears. 

He sprinted to the stables. People jumped out of his way. He bounded to his horse and climbed on, and then his horse ran, breaking stable walls, and he could only grip fistfuls of his mane to stay on because he hadn’t the time to put Bentley’s saddle on. His fingers felt numb. He didn’t feel the tree branches that slapped his body as Bentley galloped unguided down the familiar path of the village. He didn’t hear the guards that searched for him back at the stables, because he was long gone by then. He didn’t feel the hot tears that dripped off his chin as he raced through the dark night. He didn’t hear his own heartbroken wails, buried in the black mane of his horse. 

He didn’t hear or feel or see anything but the repetition of that phrase in his head. 

Disposing of her. Disposing. Like garbage.

Without a cloak to hide behind when he rode into the village, Crowley felt naked. People pointed and stared. His skin burned. The Prince, on a black stallion without a saddle or reins, his face a mess of tears. The horse did not slow until they reached the little building on the corner, with one light still on upstairs. 

Crowley pushed up his glasses and wiped his face of snot and tears as best as he could on his sleeves. He jumped off his horse and banged on the door. He didn’t care that people stared, he told himself, shaking. Then he felt foolish, and pushed the glasses back up his nose. 

He knew, vaguely, that the King had set guards on his tail. He banged harder at the door. 

“Aziraphale, you must open the door!” 

Aziraphale cracked the door open. He blinked, and then opened the door properly for Crowley to stumble inside. He said nothing, but locked and bolted the door. Aziraphale wore his reading glasses and a deeply confused frown. Crowley wrung his hands and paced. 

“I— I was summoned, and, well, I came to the dinner, and Lord Beelzebub, you remember him? With my father, and they were talking, Aziraphale, they— they admitted, they said!—”

Aziraphale clamped a hand over his mouth and stared at him. Crowley stopped talking. 

“Now. I need you to come and have a seat. You’re making no sense, dear,” he said. Crowley nodded once, and Aziraphale lowered his hand. Aziraphale led him upstairs and drew all the curtains. They both sat on the couch, and Crowley explained as fast as he could the dinner, the confession, the guards. He didn’t stop talking except to breathe, and hardly even then. 

“And now, I’m certain they’re after me, and I didn’t know where else to go.”

“After you?” Aziraphale said, worried. It struck Crowley that coming here was one of his worst ideas in all his life. If guards were after him, they’d be coming after Aziraphale now too.

“This was a terrible idea. Maybe if I run now—” 

There was a knock at the door. The two of them froze. Aziraphale gasped then, and grabbed Crowley by the arm. 

“We’re closed!” he yelled. 

“Royal guard, open up!” 

“Oh dear,” mumbled Aziraphale, spinning around and searching for a spot to hide Crowley. Crowley froze with terror and found himself shoved into a false bookcase, and how did Aziraphale even build one, and what a tight fit—

The bookshelf closed on him. He drew in slow, silent breaths and pressed up against the stone wall as tightly as he could. He could only hear now the exchange downstairs, muffled by the books that lined the shelves. 

“Good evening, officers, how can I— oh, come in then.” 

“We’re looking for Prince Crowley. He’d dun murdered someone, ane we got strict orders to bring him back. He’s a dangerous man. Seen him?”

“I’m quite sure I haven’t— Oh, do be careful, those are priceless!” 

Tables toppled. Glass broke. Pages ripped. Crowley felt that rock in his gut again.

“Mister Fell, you oughta know that harbouring a fugitive could land you in prison! Now be a good man, and tell us where you put ‘im.” 

“I’ve already told you—” 

SLAP. A body tumbled to the floor and Aziraphale grunted. 

“Liar! You and you, go look upstairs.”

Heavy footsteps bounded up the stairs. Crowley scrunched his eyes closed in terror. 

He could hear them prowling around the room, knocking things off of shelves and counters. He could hear paper ripping. Then one set of footsteps stopped in front of the bookcase, only inches away from Crowley. He stayed very, very still. 

“… Boss, I found something!” 

A third set of footsteps joined the two. 

For several moments, Crowley believed with every fibre of his petrified being that he was going to die in that bookstore. If one asked him about it later, he would frown and insist that he never felt afraid for a moment with a tremble in his voice. He imagined himself dragged straight to the noose, because Gabriel would insist he die a painful death. He could hear the sickly snap of his own neck. He could smell the rot of his corpse as it stewed in the wet English afternoon. He closed his eyes, and prayed for the first time in years that Aziraphale would be spared.

“How’s a bookkeep come across the dead Queen’s ring?” 

The footsteps receded, and now Crowley grew scared for a new reason. 

“Din’t peg you a thief,” sneered one of them downstairs. 

“I— no, you’ve misunderstood—” 

“I understand plenty! Always in the palace, so you nick a ring, no one’ll notice, you thinks. Nicked the Queen’s ring, you did!” 

There was a pause, and a deafening silence followed. 

“Burn it to the ground.” 

“No! You mustn’t!” 

Another slap, only louder, something more solid on skin, rung out. This time, Azirphale cried out in pain.

More tables toppled. More books ripped. Crowley didn’t hear the matches being lit, but he could smell the fire once it began, could hear the lick and crackle of flames on dry books. More terrifying were the abrupt screams of his best friend and the sound of his body dragged across the floor. The door opened, and Crowley couldn’t hear anything anymore. He couldn’t breathe properly and horrified tears pricked at his eyes.

Crowley pushed his feet out against the bookshelf and pushed and pushed until a space formed enough that he could squeeze out. He coughed and hacked. From the floor to the ceiling, thick grey smoke obscured his view. He covered his mouth and nose as best as he could with his hands. 

“Aziraphale! I’m coming, Aziraphale!” 

He clambered down the stairs. Aziraphale’s unconscious body slumped up against the building, bruises on his face and body, and blood dripping down his forehead from a cut close to the top of his head. A small crowd had formed where there weren’t people being chased out of their homes in search for Crowley. People watched from afar in awe as the flames licked higher into the sky. They pointed and whispered at the sight of Crowley dragging Aziraphale’s unconscious body away of the burning building, and pointed some more as he rushed back inside. 

His heart pounded in his ears as all around him, books toppled and the infrastructure caved. Every part of his mind and body screamed at him to leave the building and flee, reminded him how quickly the crowd would attract attention, that Aziraphale was bleeding out outside— and then he saw his mother’s ring. It was on the floor, surrounded by burning wood. He leapt towards it. A beam collapsed where he had stood and grazed his arm. Crowley snatched up the ring and rushed outside into the cold night air. He didn’t register how his feet burned.

His lungs felt as though they were scorched from the inside out. The ring burned into his skin. Aziraphale was slumped in the same spot Crowley had left him. 

Crowley knew they were out of time. In the distance, he could hear the screams of adrenaline pumped guards. He tried again to wake Aziraphale, to no avail. His chest rose and fell in ragged movements. 

“What’s goin’ on over there?”

Panicked, Crowley decided that they couldn’t stay here. 

Getting him onto Bentley proved difficult, even as the horse knelt down, but he managed. He slumped Aziraphale against Bentley’s neck and held him in place as well as he could. He whispered something into the horse’s ear, kicked his heels into his flank, and off they raced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work is not Beta'd. I am currently looking for a Beta. If you would be interested, comment a way that I can contact you so that we can arrange something.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit more angst and plot...... for now

In the empty throne room, King Gabriel paced in silence. Beelzebub lazed on the throne, one leg tossed over a golden arm, and watched. They picked at the lint on their clothing. This bored them. “The boy heard us, yes? He must be killed,” proposed Beelzebub.

“If I kill him now, the public will be suspicious,” Gabriel huffed. “It— They’ll get ideas. You’ve seen what happened in France when they got too brazen. No, we bring him here, and we sentence him. We’ll make an example of him.”

“Gabriel—”

“I’ve already made up my _mind_ , pet.”

Beelzebub chewed at their lip. They watched with more rapt attention now as Gabriel walked in imaginary circles. They were at risk of being eaten alive by the British courts and public should news of an affair become public. The King would be elevated as a God and Beelzebub would be hung in the dead of the night in the courtyard of the quaint church two streets away. Beelzebub had their own self interest to look out for. 

“You wouldn’t change it even for me, my love?” Beelzebub asked in a silky voice.

“I said I made up my mind!” Gabriel snapped, “You will obey my orders without question!” Gabriel seethed like a beast disturbed and glared at Beelzebub, who felt all of three inches tall then.

“Yes, my King.” 

“Get the hounds on him. I want my best men. I want him alive, and I want him fast.”

“Yes, my King.” 

“I want everyone to know him as a murderer. I want his reputation swept through the mud. I want him to be hated. Hang signs, spread it as gossip. The whole she-bang.” 

“.... Yes, my King.” Lord Beelzebub scowled and stomped off to arrange the manhunt. 

Gabriel collapsed in his throne. He ordered a nervous looking servant standing by to bring him a bottle of gin. Alone, he gazed up, where the face of the late Queen Lael gazed down from above in painted shades of rich gold and baby pink and indigo. Gabriel stewed in his shame. 

Within an hour, the hounds were off. The manhunt began. Crowley’s clock began to tick.

~~~

Aziraphale woke up by the harsh rays of the sun stinging through his eyelids and forcing them open. Birds sang in shrill screams. He had dreamed of nothing, and for a moment, he remembered nothing. Then his senses came back to him, and he felt the cool dirt under his hands, heard the rush of a stream, and cracked his eyes open. The stream, with water white and frothing as milk, began a few meters before him in a forest he had never seen before. He ached all over.

Aziraphale’s attempt to speak resulted in a coughing fit of dry and bloody wheezing. A hand fell to his back. Shaking, he looked up to see Crowley. He said nothing as he helped Aziraphale hobble to the stream to drink. Aziraphale guzzled handfuls of the cold water.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale croaked. “What happened?” 

Crowley drew circles in the mud with a twig. “A lot.” He fell silent for a long minute. His gaze was absent, somewhere far away. He spoke with a quivering lip, “They burned down your bookshop. It’s gone now, I think. Must be.” 

Aziraphale gawked as Crowley rose from his side and waded into the water, still dressed in black. Aziraphale’s body ached. His head pounded, and talking burned. Still, he asked, “Are you alright, my dear?”

Crowley stopped, waist high in the water. His robe clung to his shivering frame. His back was tense and rigid as a board, faced away from Aziraphale. 

“I think when you ask me that question, you expect a dignified sort of answer. I haven’t got one for you, though.” Crowley began to scoop handfuls of dark wet mud from the river onto his clothes and skin, rubbing it in like soap. “I’ll let you know when I do. Are you alright?”

Aziraphale considered this question. What did he even feel? Anger, at the guards that had burned down his home. Sorrow, knowing the true fate of the beloved queen. Fear, for what was to come next. Such mind numbingly overwhelming terror, the kind that made him want to vomit and shake. He sorted all those emotions away in a neat box deep in his mind so he could focus on his hunch that the events of the day had broken Crowley, who was rubbing handfuls of mud on his face. “I suppose I’ve had… No, I haven’t had worse.” Bad choice of words. “I’ll be alright. I still have you, don’t I?” 

That made Crowley turn around. His cheeks had two smears of mud on them, dirty river mud that smelled like leaves. “You’ve always got me.” More wet squelches of mud. “I got you into this mess. Gotta get you out of it, if I can.” He hesitated. “If I can’t, I’ll make them let you go. You haven’t got a part in this.”

“Crowley?”

“Mh.” 

“May I ask you a question?”

“Anything, angel.”

“Why are you lathering yourself in that?”

“Hey, you’re next.” Crowley pointed one muddy finger at Aziraphale. “The royal asshole has headhunters. Whenever he doesn’t like what someone’s up to, they’re set loose.There are dogs that can smell a man from miles away.” Mud dripped into the water in heavy clumps. “The dogs are looking for my scent. This way, they’ll lose the trail.” Aziraphale considered it and decided that Crowley was not crazy, but just stupid enough to be smart. 

“I really don’t want to get covered in mud,” he muttered. Crowley scowled. 

“Neither do I, but I’d _really_ not want to be found and killed.”

“I don’t smell like you.” 

“Yes, you do.” Crowley tossed his hands up in the air at his sides and motioned to himself. He was unrecognizable under the sludge except by his wide telltale eyes, a strange yellow green with pupils that seemed to drip. Aziraphale thought of his books on reptiles, of pit vipers and yellow eyed lizards. “You slept on my horse. Besides, you smell like smoke and things.” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. He heaved himself to his feet. The pain was unholy, yet he bit his cheek and waded into the water, and only cried out a little as raw burns met rushing water. “Come, I’ve got you.” Aziraphale let himself fall into Crowley’s arms. He didn’t realize how exhausted he was. The rush of the river soothed Aziraphale. Crowley’s arms, wet and cold as they were, felt right around his waist. Neither one of them wanted to move. He could hear Crowley’s ragged breath in his ear.

“Are you angry?” Asked Crowley. He dropped his arms to start rubbing mud into Aziraphale’s skin and clothes. It felt grainy and pricked his sore skin. Aziraphale frowned.

“Surely you don’t mean angry at _you_?”

“Are you?” Crowley avoided Aziraphale’s gaze. He focused on his task. Mud, water, rub, repeat. 

“You’ve done nothing to make me angry. I’m honoured you came to me.” If Crowley flushed a little deeper, Aziraphale couldn’t tell under the mud. He said nothing after that, not until the mud had started to bake on Aziraphale’s skin in the afternoon sun and they both waded further into the river to wash off what remained. Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, wet curls stuck to his forehead and clothing absolutely soaked, and wondered how he had been so lucky. Aziraphale looked back at him. Crowley quickly busied himself with wringing his long red curls out. 

They both laid out in the sun to dry off on a patch of yellowing grass. Crowley had his lenses back on and his eyes closed. Later, they would both wonder how they hadn’t heard the footsteps approaching. Crowley had assumed that the crunching was Bentley eating a shrub. Aziraphale wrote it off as he did not go outside very much. Both of them realized only when it was too late, and a gunshot whizzed past them. 

“Shit!” 

Crowley and Aziraphale whipped around in horror to find a tall man with short brown hair, holding a long hunting rifle in a way that said, I don’t know how to hold a hunting rifle. “Um, who goes there?”

“Travellers!” Blurted out Aziraphale. If Crowley was being hunted, it was best not to say his name. The man approached them. 

“Terribly sorry, I’m quite horrible with guns.” He wore round glasses and a wrinkled white shirt. 

“That’s alright. I’m quite rubbish with them too,” said Aziraphale, smiling. 

“I’m a hunter,” said the man.

“Oh.”

“Travellers, you say?” He squinted hard at Crowley. There was recognition in his eyes. “Have we met?” 

“Depends,” said Crowley, narrowing his eyes. “Do you live around here?” 

The hunter nodded and pointed at a dirt path between the trees. “I live just past the meadow. My wife preferred it out here, far from all the worries and that. Terribly rude of me, actually, my name is Pulsifer, Newton Pulsifer.” 

Crowley extended a hand, and Newton fumbled with his rifle to shake it. He shook Aziraphale’s hand. Crowley asked, “Tell me, Newt. Have you heard any sort of news lately? Anything peculiar, maybe local?”

Newton pondered this for a moment. “Well, my wife told me she thinks the Fae shall be getting more brazen soon. Or her grandmother. That is, her grandmother told me. Not that her grandmother would become brazen. Oh dear, I mix up their tales, really. They’re both excellent storytellers.” Newton was not an excellent storyteller. Newton looked like he was going to continue, so Crowley stopped him there. “Very well. I am Prince Anthony, son of King Gabriel. This is Aziraphale.” Newt gasped and sputtered stumbled apologies and somewhat incorrect titles.

“Newt.” Newton looked at Aziraphale. “Would you by any chance be able to house us with you for a day or so?” He lifted an arm, showing off burns that had bubbled along his skin, and a few where the skin had split open. Newt paled.

“It would be very appreciated, Newt.” He bristled and whipped back around to look at Crowley. 

“Your honour, I… Lord, I shot at the Prince,” he whispered. “Forgive me, I—”

“You are forgiven.” Crowley smiled in a way that didn’t touch any part of his face but his lips and teeth. Newt nodded, stood up, and gingerly picked up the gun. Crowley stood up. He decided he did not trust Newt with the gun and plucked it out of his hands. “Just in case! Lead the way, Newt.” 

Crowley had to help Aziraphale to his feet. He led Bentley with one hand and held the gun in the other, and all three of them followed Newton down the path while he nervously chatted about his wife. The walk was not a long one.

The cottage was a stout building with green window panes and a green door, and a garden of herbs and ripe vegetables. A few apple trees towered behind it. It was just on the edge of a vast meadow where the sun could bathe all the plant life in warm light. Crowley stooped down to pet the leaves of a head of lettuce and stroke a green tomato plant. Newt tied up the horse outside, and he seemed quite content to graze in the meadow.

Newton ushered Crowley and Aziraphale inside. “I’m terribly sorry for the mess, your royalness, er, if I had known— I mean, certainly, I couldn’t have known—” 

Aziraphale watched in fascination as Crowley silenced him with a raise of his hand. “You can call me Crowley. None of that, now. Bit too stuffy for shared living quarters.” 

Crowley took in his surroundings. His hair still dripped on the wooden floor of the kitchen area. A pot bubbled away on the hearth and filled the home with delicious smells of sage and deer meat. Shelves filled with jars and bottles of powders and herbs lined the brick walls. Light streamed in from the many windows onto wooden tables and chairs, and hand knit throws in greens and blues. “It’s a lovely home, Newt. Where’s your wife?” 

“Oh, well, she usually is asleep around this time. Or, wakes up. What with the baby and that.” 

“Baby?” 

“Well, she’s pregnant. I did mention that, didn’t I?”

Crowley slowly shook his head. He looked at Aziraphale, who was quiet and biting his lip. He cupped a hand around a particularly nasty looking burn. “My congratulations to you both.” 

Newt beamed at this, congratulations from the royal Prince of all people, and ushered for the two of them to sit down at the table. He disappeared into another room, and returned a few moments later with his wife. She had long brown hair and a pleasant face. Her belly, pressed against a long white nightgown, was close to bursting. He helped her walk. With every step, she seemed to tilt to one side under the weight of her stomach. She smiled, and Crowley felt a pang in his heart that longed for his mother.

“Your grace, I’m honoured to welcome you to my home. My name is Anathema.” She held a hand to her belly absently. “My husband tells me you look to be in bad shape.” 

“Do you know how to help?” He asked in a high voice. Aziraphale stared at him and wondered if Crowley knew how tired he was. “There was a fire. Er. I will explain it all.” Anathema leaned closer to Aziraphale to look at his arm. She grimaced and turned to her kitchen. 

“Mister Aziraphale, you are in luck.” She turned to beam at him. Despite being barefoot in a nightgown and pregnant to the brim, Anathema stood with the grace and composure an empress. “For I am a woman of science, and a healer to boot.” She took out a bowl, and began to pull jars off the shelves. Crowley watched in fascination. Aziraphale dozed off on the tabletop.

“Where did you learn science?” Asked Crowley. He had never met a woman scientist. 

“My mother.”

Crowley was further perplexed. “And her?”

“Her mother.”

“Wh— and her?”

“Ah, that, I couldn’t tell you.” Couldn’t or wouldn’t, Crowley couldn’t tell in Anathema’s smile. She brought the bowl over, along with a brown bottle of whiskey and a cotton rag. “Now, Mister Aziraphale.” Aziraphale looked up through sleep fogged eyes. “This will most definitely hurt. You must bear with me.” She began to dip the rag in whiskey and clean the wounds, and Aziraphale bit his tongue. His skin burned all over again.

It became clear to Crowley very quickly that Anathema intended to teach him how to do it, as she was growing tired once more. “I must apologize, but with the baby so close, my energy…” 

“Not at all, not at all,” Crowley murmured. “May I?” 

Under Anathema’s watchful eye, Crowley learned to clean the wound (Anathema, nor her mother, nor her mother’s mother didn’t understand why it helped, but it certainly did. Better than wine, but worse than spirits.) and coat it in the paste she had made. 

Crowley tried to explain their predicament, but Aziraphale ended up taking over the explanation when Crowlet kept stumbling over important details. He hadn’t slept in nearly two days at this point. Aziraphale, tired as he was, spared only the private details. 

“I think,” Crowley said, as Aziraphale finished his shortened tale, “that the two of us ought to rest.” Aziraphale nodded in agreement. Newt had mentioned a bedroom, usually for his mother-in-law when she visited. Crowley brought the bowl of paste and the whiskey and rag with them. He was to repeat the process in the evening. Crowlry barely heard Newton’s wish of sweet dreams and just collapsed into the bed. He took a long sip of the whiskey. Silent, Aziraphale took the bottle and drank from it as well. 

“What an odd couple,” murmured Aziraphale. He sat next to Crowley and drank. 

“They do seem nice.” Crowley was just tired enough for the next sentence to slip past his loosened lips. “She reminds me of my mother.” 

“Oh, _Crowley_ , dear.”

“Please, can we—” Crowley took a shuddering breath. “This has been a long day, angel. Two days? I… I don’t— I’m so tired,” he said finally. Aziraphale nodded. He got back to his feet, and he began to pull his still damp shirt over his head. Crowley looked away on instinct. “Right, good idea, what for the wet clothes and whatnot,” he muttered, more to himself. He heard Aziraphale chuckle and felt his ears burn. Aziraphale was facing the wall and working on the buttons of his pants. Crowley sneaked a look. Just one. His ears burned even darker. 

“Everything alright?” Crowley didn’t notice that he’d trailed off. He cleared his throat a little too loudly. He had to play it cool.

“Yes, yes, fine. Need some help with that?” Aziraphale turned to pout at him. Definitely not cool.

“I think you’re going to be the one that needs help,” Said Aziraphale. “You’re nearly asleep.” Crowley realized with only an inkling of guilt that he didn’t mind Aziraphale believing he needed the help. Crowley flicked his eyes up and down Aziraphale’s body. Even bruised in various places with burns on his arms and neck, Aziraphale was the most beautiful man Crowley had ever seen. He had stripped down to his underwear and was hanging his wet clothing in the wardrobe to dry. Muddy as they had been, the water was clean and their clothes were only damp. Crowley couldn’t tear his eyes away. Aziraphale had such milky and soft looking skin. His body curved just so, but Crowley could see muscle underneath that rippled when he moved. Down lower, to his hips, his legs… Crowley tore his eyes away and to the floor. He didn’t trust himself to talk. He’d make a fool of himself, so he stuck his arms up and offered a flushed smile. 

“Just this once.”

Aziraphale toed his shoes and socks off. “Right.” He looked nervous then. Crowley felt a little more at ease. He wasn’t the only one. 

Aziraphale pulled the robe off of Crowley with a bit of maneuvering, seeing as Crowley was taller than him. He unbuttoned the shirt underneath. Aziraphale helped Crowley wriggle out of his pants (“Really, dear, leggings?” Said Aziraphale, to which Crowley had replied, “They’re stylish.”), and kneeled down to the floor to pull off his shoes and socks. 

If Crowley were his normal self, a stripped down Aziraphale between his legs would have done wondrous and sinful things to him. As it was, Crowley flopped back onto the bed and felt Aziraphale climb in next to him. He closed his eyes. He felt Aziraphale move about the room, setting their shoes to dry by the window and their clothes up to hang. He felt the bed dip as Aziraphale slid in next to him. 

Crowley was too exhausted to take note of his actions. He curled up next to Aziraphale and elicited a happy sigh from him. His skin felt hot where they touched. Exhaustion crashed over him in waves, and as Crowley fell asleep, he was certain he felt soft lips on his forehead. He could think about it when he woke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some facts:
> 
> -Crowley has long hair in this. Like, waist longred curls. Because. 
> 
> -Crowley has what we call bilateral colombola, giving him snek eyes. 
> 
> -I don't know a whole lot about hunting dogs but I do remember that being soaked in mud and water conceals your scent. 
> 
> -Anathema is still a witch too, probably. Gotta be careful saying that to a Prince, though.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wooo I am posting this at 2 AM!! Please enjoy this slightly shorter chapter that gives our darling Crowley a break.

Crowley woke up a few hours later when the last rays of sunlight were starting to bleed out of the room in a wash of orange light. Aziraphale was breathing deeply next to him, an arm slung over Crowley’s shoulders.

“Aziraphale?”

No answer. He had his face buried under a pillow. Crowley peeked underneath and smiled. Aziraphale drooled in his sleep. 

Crowley slipped out of the bed. He pulled on his clothes in silence. They were still a bit damp, but only in the way that his body heat would be able to dry within a few hours. He left his shoes, wool socks, and outer robe to dry and stepped out of the room in black pants and a black billowing shirt. Crowley cast one last look at Aziraphale, who was curled up on the bed with the blanket tucked around him, and shut the door in silent increments. 

The house was silent as Crowley walked barefoot down the hallway he had come through. The kitchen was empty and the fire in the hearth had been put out. Newton was curled up on the couch, his too-long legs hanging off the end of it. He was snoring through a blue pillow over his face. Crowley let him be. The front door was open. He slipped outside.

Lilac cornflowers and marigolds dotted the grassy meadow. Crowley took his time walking the path towards the apple trees. He admired ripe vegetables and several rows of carrot tops, and the fragrant bushes of wild sage that grew around the house. Perhaps her science background had granted Anathema a green thumb, he thought. Or maybe Newton, horrible huntsman as he was, tended the garden. Crowley thought of his own garden at home. He had plants from all over the world arranged into an exotic garden, the only one of its kind in the land. Cacti from the Americas and Chinese poppy flowers, jasmine flowers from the heart of Damascus. They would wither and die without his care. The cacti would droop. The poppy and jasmine would die. Maybe Gabriel would smash them. But no, that was far too merciful of him. 

“Did you sleep well?”

He’d reached the apple trees. A wooden table and two chairs were placed underneath the largest of the trees, tall enough that only a branch grazed his head while he stood. He wondered how they reached the apples, but then, they must have a method, because Anathema had a bucketful on the table in front of her. 

“Well enough. May I?”

Anathema gestured to the chair. “Please do.” She placed her hands back onto her belly. She wore a brown dress now. “Is your companion still asleep?”

“Ah… Yes, last I checked, Aziraphale was asleep. Your husband, too.”

“He works too hard,” she said. “Not that it gets anything done, mind you. Would you like an apple?” The apples were bright red and the size of baseballs. Crowley nodded, and Anathema plucked an apple from the pile for him. 

“In a few weeks, we’ll have no apples left. The birds will eat those at the top of the tree, and the worms will get to those on the floor. I pick as many as I can every day. I make apple pie, apple cider, apple loaf, apple jam, apple butter… I make certain we get sick of apples every year.” She smiled, and Crowley could tell that she meant it. 

“Aziraphale would enjoy that. He’s big on flavours and all that. Me, I can’t bring myself to form an appetite too much.”

“I’ll give him some of my jam when he wakes. He’s certain to love it.” She leaned back in her chair. “You know?”

“Hm?”

“I knew you were going to come.”

“How?” Crowley asked, uneasy. 

“I dreamt it. I dream every night, and I learn bits and pieces of the world. It isn’t always clear until it’s happened, though.” 

“So you’re a witch?”

Anathema frowned, rubbing her belly in thought. “I don’t think so. Just… Inquisitive.”

“Alright. Inquisitive. What else did you dream?”

“Well… I couldn’t tell you it like that.” 

“No?”

“Not until it’s happened, usually.”

“Why should I believe you, then?” There was no malice in his voice.

“What reason do I, a lady of science, have to tell the Prince himself that I have prophetic dreams? Could get me killed.” 

Crowley shrugged. “You could just really wanna fuck with me.”

“Oh? Do I strike you as that bored?” She laughed. 

“Dunno. Do you tend the garden?” 

“Mm. I did it all until the baby got this big. Newt has been helping a lot, lately. Gets hard to crouch.” 

Crowley could hear her then, but didn’t make out her words. He fell into his memories like a down mattress, soft and forgiving. She looked fuzzy around the edges. Not in a dizzying way, but more as though she was someone out of a dream. The cascading hair and sincere smile. The pregnant belly. Crowley felt a lump rise in his throat. This was the sort of lump that only hurt to swallow away and made his eyes burn with tears. 

“Oh, I—Your mother, I forgot….” Anathema placed a warm hand over his on the table. He didn’t move away. “She was beautiful.”

“You look like her.” He didn’t mean to say it. It just slipped out. Anathema squeezed his hand. 

“You aren’t the first to say that, you know. I don’t get it. She was blonde!” 

Crowley smiled, watery and shaking. “She used to sit and rub her belly, you know, just like you. A cup of tea on the table, more sugar than tea. Some stupid document in front of her that asked her to pick the lesser of two evils. He always made her make the hardest decisions. She was good at it. Better than I could ever hope to be.” Crowley took a deep breath. “Look at me, I… You just look like her,” He said dumbly. 

Anathema nodded in understanding. She didn’t say anything for a long while, and Crowley began to feel embarrassed about crying. He’d only just met her, and it wasn’t her fault that she looked like his mother. Then she moved her hand away from his and back to her belly. 

“Ooh… Baby’s kicking. Wanna feel it?”

Crowley sputtered, but nodded. She guided his hand around his belly until he felt the skin under her clothing ripple in a slow wave. A tiny foot pressed against her belly. She gasped in delight. 

“Active one,” Crowley murmured. 

“She’s probably just woken up.” 

“She sleeps?”

“Of course she sleeps, silly. She’s a baby. Then she wakes up and stomps around and waves her fists. I’m certain she cries too, I just can’t hear it yet.” She sighed. “I’m not excited for the crying. My mother told me it steals your nights away. Oh, I’ll turn grey without my sleep.” 

Crowley pulled his hand back. “Wouldn’t know, really.” Sensing that he might delve into a tragic topic again, he added, “Have you thought of a name?”

Anathema shrugged. “I’ll know. When I see her, I’ll know.” 

“How do you know it’s a girl?”

“Just do. Trust me.” 

Crowley did, for some reason. 

“So, Prince Crowley. Close friends with that Aziraphale, are you?” 

Crowley ducked his head down and turned his apple over in his hands. He shrugged. “Childhood friend. I trust him.”

“You don’t have to be scared to talk to me.” Crowley looked up then. “Crowley. Can I call you that?”

Crowley nodded. Small as it was, allowing someone to call him his name stripped of a title felt rebellious and good. 

“I have been in love with Newt for two years. I met him two years ago, and we married a month later. I’ve never loved anyone like I loved him. Because of him, the world makes sense, even when it doesn’t.” She smiled, but there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Love is like an English rose. Its beauty compels you. You can’t help but be drawn to it. It seems to glow.” 

“Your husband means a lot to you.”

“That isn’t my point.” She stared at Crowley, and he looked down at his lap. She was quiet. Expectant. She didn’t have to say it. He knew.

“What you’re…. Suggesting is a sin. Out of the question. Untrue.”

“You don’t strike me as very religious, if you don’t mind my inferring.”

“Hard to be when your pregnant mother is murdered.”

“So? What’s holding you back?”

Crowley chewed the inside of his cheek. He could taste blood, metallic and bright. “I can’t.”

“You won’t. That’s different than can’t. You’re scared.” She took a bite from her apple and spoke around it. “I’m about to pop out a baby. I’m terrified. But I love my baby already, so I’m willing to take the risk. What’s holding you back? No more royal obligations, not at this rate. He clearly loves you.” 

Crowley snapped his head up and glared at her. “He hardly cares for me as more than a friend.” 

“Oh, come now. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it.” She took another bite. 

Crowley tried his best to speak in a steady voice, but it was hard when his heart was beating so fast. “Noticed what?” He croaked.

“The way he looks at you. Like you hung the stars.”

Crowley flushed. He tossed the apple from hand to hand. Something to do, something to look at that wasn’t her piercing, knowing gaze. The apple began to bruise in the shape of his fingers. 

“You could be wrong.” 

“I’m not.” Her voice was strong and muffled around a bite of apple. “You know I’m not.” She set her apple down and reached across the table to rub his shoulder. He relaxed into the gentle touch. 

“When do you expect they’ll come for you?” 

“I’d give us a day or two more. I only slowed them down.” 

“What are you going to do?”

“I have a plan.” 

“I dreamed that a man was wandering in the city, blind and alone. I fear for your Aziraphale.” 

“Your dream is wrong. Nothing bad will happen to him. I’m asking as your Prince that you trust me. I can save us both.”

Anathema sat back in her chair with a sad smile. “I’m not ever wrong.” 

“I don’t believe you this time.” 

“You will.” A pause, then, “You should go to him. Wake up Newt for me on the way out, will you? I like to sit with him on evenings like this and talk.” 

Crowley nodded. He stood, uneaten apple in hand. “I feel like I should thank you.” 

“Crowley, I have good dreams too. Don’t waste your chance.”

Crowley walked back into the house. The sun had set. Crickets chirped around him in a steady hum. The flowers were all the same dark colour now. His hands shook when he woke Newt, and his heart pounded as he opened the door into the bedroom. 

Aziraphale sat at the edge of the bed, buttoning his shirt. He had his clothes back on, minus the shoes and socks. He smiled at Crowley. The smile began to falter as Crowley stood in the doorway. 

“Is something the matter, dear boy?” 

“I need to talk to you.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments fuel my soul and commentary fuels it twofold. We're starting to approach the real action folks!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In the crooks of your body, I find my religion.”  
> ― Sappho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does contain a sex scene. If you need warnings, they're at the end notes, but it will spoil some minor stuff. 
> 
> If you are interested in being a beta for this story hmu! This is edited, but a fresh set of eyes is always appreciated. 
> 
> This was so fun to write. Enjoy!

Crowly stood in the doorway, squinting in the darkness. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and stared at the floor. He squirmed. 

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley. “What about? Come, sit next to me, you look absolutely shaken.”

Crowley sat just far away that they didn’t touch. Aziraphale wrapped an arm around Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley tensed. 

“Oh dear, you’re all strung up. I know you’re worried, but we are safe for now. I really think you got them off our trail.”

“It isn’t about that, angel.” He didn’t bear approach that topic. The less Aziraphale knew, the better. 

“Hardly the time for  _ that  _ joke,” Aziraphale laughed. Crowley felt a twisting in his gut. Maybe Aziraphale could never take this seriously. Maybe all the playful flirting had become a game to him and could no longer be taken seriously. 

Anathema’s words rung like sirens in his ears. Don’t waste your chance. He had to try one last time. This time felt final, resolute. He took a deep breath, pushed his glasses off, and met Aziraphale’s gaze.

“You call me your dear.” 

“That’s different.”

“Hardly.”

“You only call  _ me _ your angel.”

Maybe, Crowley thought, if he stared long enough, Aziraphale would read his mind and just  _ know. _ How he spent his days and nights thinking about him and how it would feel to kiss those lips, stretched in a lazy smile. 

Crowley said in a slow voice, “That’s because you are my angel. The only one for me.” 

Aziraphale turned pink. It grew worse when he glanced up and met Crowley’s fiery gaze, blazing yellow and nervous. 

“Have you been drinking?”

“Not a drop.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale whispered. 

Crowley’s words became heavy in his mouth, like honey on his tongue. He swallowed and, before he could back down, continued. “Do you know, Aziraphale?” He brought a hand to Aziraphale’s face, cupped his cheek. 

“Know…?” His voice trembled. He couldn’t look away from Crowley, even when Crowley’s gaze flickered to his lips. 

Crowley spoke in a rushed breath. “I don’t believe in a loving God, but I believe in you. You are the light of the stars and the envy of the moon. You’ve brought me back from the edge of life so many times, and we could have died and you’re still  _ here _ . Only angels do that, right?” He took a shuddering breath. 

“Aziraphale, I—”

Aziraphale leaned up and kissed him. 

The world spun in the most incredible way, in stars and magic and everything else he was certain was created between their lips in that moment. Aziraphale had the softest lips, yet he kissed with urgency. Crowley groaned and closed his eyes. He raked a hand through soft white curls. He felt Aziraphale’s hand tug at his own tangled hair. 

They parted. Crowley had no time to think before Aziraphale was kissing his neck, from the back of his ear to his collarbone. 

“Idiot,”  _ kiss _ , “man,”  _ kiss _ , “making me,”  _ kiss _ , “wait years for this,”  _ kiss. _

Crowley gasped and tightened his hand in Aziraphale’s hair. He barely had the lucidity to answer. “Wh… Why am I an idiot? If you felt that way too…” 

Aziraphale looked up from where he had undone the first two of Crowley’s buttons. He was a sight to behold. Puffy lips, wild hair, and a blissful smile on his face. “Hardly could tell an English Prince that I, a man and a commoner, had loved him for twenty years, now could I?” 

“Twenty—” Crowley gasped as Aziraphale kissed a row of feather-soft kisses along his jaw. There was a hunger in his actions, a spring ready to snap. Crowley realized that he held the single latch keeping the spring loaded. He looked down at Aziraphale, who was tracing along the side of Crowley’s neck with his thumb. He felt no fear or anxiety. He’d known Aziraphale his entire life. There had always been love between them. 

“Will you have me, angel?” 

Aziraphale beamed at him. Crowley let himself be laid on the bed, Aziraphale climbing on top of him. He stroked Crowley’s face. He leaned down and kissed him again, and Crowley wondered if this was how it felt to drink the wine of heaven. 

“Why did I wait,” he gasped against Aziraphale’s hair as he kissed along the side of his face. 

“I wish I knew,” murmured Aziraphale. He began to unbutton Crowley’s shirt. Crowley shivered. His hot hands on Crowley’s cool skin had him arching up into the touch. Aziraphale’s lips moved lower, painstakingly slow, as he documented every inch of Crowley’s skin with his lips. Crowley yanked off his shirt and tossed it across the room. 

Slowly, Aziraphale moved, stroking and kissing and touching every part of Crowley’s body until it felt like his skin was searing from the heat. He kissed along his shoulders and left love bites on his chest, and kissed his lips until Crowley swore they were purple and bruised. 

“Angel—”

“Mm, dearest.” 

Crowley rolled his hips up, and Aziraphale squeaked. 

“Did you not want to—”

“I do!” Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley smiled despite himself, despite his arousal. “I do. Just been a while.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“You  _ haven’t _ ?” Aziraphale said, incredulous.

“Don’t say it like that!” Crowley groaned and covered his face with his hands. Aziraphale parted them like he would open a book. He was smiling in that calm, bright way of his. 

“Crowley?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to make you feel so _ good _ .” 

Aziraphale kissed him again, and Crowley melted. Neither of them was sure who pulled Crowley’s pants off, but then, he didn’t care, because he could roll his hips up into the delicious feeling. He broke the kiss to cry out, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“Angel,  _ please _ !”

But then Aziraphale was gone from the bed, leaving a perplexed and upset Crowley alone in the room. Lust clouded his mind enough in the few moments that Aziraphale was gone that he was only a bit upset, and more confused when Crowley came back with a bottle. 

“What…?”

“I saw it in the kitchen earlier. We’ll need it.”

“ _ Oh _ .” Something broke through the dam in his mind. Aziraphale smiled and shut the door. 

The next few minutes were a blur. Maybe it was longer. Maybe it was hours that Aziraphale spent then, stretching him out at the same painstaking tempo he’d loved the rest of Crowley’s body. He only stopped to climb up and kiss him, or stroke his cock enough that he groaned in frustration. He lifted one long pale leg to kiss the inside of his knee, and hooked the other leg over his shoulder. He kissed, slow and gentle, up the inside of his thigh, murmuring gentle praises into his skin that had Crowley clenching the sheets by his head in a vice grip. He stopped when he was just over halfway up his thigh and began to lavish his hip in attention. Crowley groaned and arched his hips up into the air, searching for friction that wasn’t there. He reached down to bring himself some sort of relief. 

Once he pulled his fingers out, Crowley scrabbled for his shirt and pulled him up into a deep kiss. With a swift movement, he rolled them over and straddled Aziraphale. 

“Aziraphale, why’s it I’m naked and you’ve still got all these stupid layers on?” He pulled Aziraphale’s shirt over his head and dropped it on the bed. He shimmied between Aziraphale’s legs and looked up at him. Aziraphale was gazing down, panting and flushed, with his hand buried in Crowley’s hair. 

“Crowley, you look  _ divine _ ,” he whispered. 

“Nothing I’m going to do to you is divine,” he said with a glint in his eye. 

Aziraphale bit his lip. Crowley pulled his pants off, with plans of his own when he saw Aziraphale’s cock. It curved towards his stomach and leaked at the tip. It’s size made Crowley squirm in delight. He took it in his hand, giving an experimental stroke. Aziraphale groaned, and Crowley smiled wickedly. He licked it then, and then closed his eyes to focus on fitting as much of it in his mouth as he could. He bobbed his head. Aziraphale gasped and panted, tensed and held back half thrusts that elicited the most obscene sounds from Crowley’s throat. Crowley felt proud of the effect he had. Aziraphale’s grip on his hair tightened, pulled him up and off. Crowley opened his eyes and stared at Aziraphale. 

“I want you now.”

“Okay,” whispered Crowley. “How?”

“Lay on your back.”

Crowley crawled up the bed and laid down. Subconsciously, he spread his legs. Aziraphale was over him then, hands holding him up on either side of Crowley’s head. 

“If it hurts, tell me and I’ll stop.”

“ _ Now _ , Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale reached down, and inched inside. Crowley arched up off the bed and grabbed Aziraphale’s shoulders with his nails, and he whimpered. He was tense as a bow, panting and grabbing. 

“Alright?” Aziraphale’s voice was strained.

“Aziraphale, I am begging you—and I do not beg— to  _ move _ .” 

Aziraphale laughed, the bastard, but oh, Crowley didn’t have time to dwell on it because then he finally was moving, and it lit every nerve capable of receiving pleasure in his body ablaze. He buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, muffling his soft cries into the skin. Aziraphale spoke, though.

“My darling, sweetest Crowley. You’re doing so well for me, that’s it, just relax like that… I love you so much, you know that? You’re taking me so incredibly well, my love…”

It was driving Crowley mad. He scrambled at Aziraphale’s back as his breaths got heavier and he began thrusting up to meet Aziraphale. There was a moment in the midst of it all where he wondered where he ended and Aziraphale started. Maybe they’d just become one enjoined mess of pleasure and limbs, sweaty and grinding and moving in tandem. He liked that idea. He wished they could stay this way forever. 

“Crowley, I’m close,” panted Aziraphale. 

But they couldn’t stay this way forever. Sooner or later, he would be taken away. 

He didn’t mean to tear up. He only just missed the first tear that spilled, and then Aziraphale had stopped and sat up to hold Crowley in his lap. “Shh… Does it hurt? Shall I stop?”

“No,” croaked Crowley. “Just… Just all of this, you know?” He huffed and kissed Aziraphale, holding his face in gentle hands. He pulled away, but kept their foreheads pressed together. “Please keep going, angel. Please.” 

Aziraphale thumbed a second tear away. He lifted Crowley in his lap just a bit, just enough that he could slowly thrust up into him. Crowley began to move his hips along him, little bounces. He couldn’t stop the tears. Aziraphale kissed them away, and whispered sweet words that sent shivers down Crowley’s spine. 

“You’re safe with me, my love. We’re safe.”

It was bittersweet bliss. 

Crowley came suddenly, stilling with a broken cry as his world exploded into stars and ecstasy. He blacked out for a moment as he shook and came. If Aziraphale hadn’t wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist, he was certain he would have fallen to the bed. A few moments later, he felt a heat inside him and a gasp by his ear. Aziraphale slowed, then stopped altogether. They both caught their breaths for a few moments in the afterglow, Crowley’s face buried into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. 

Aziraphale still whispered reassuring words as he pulled Crowley off of his lap. He kissed along his face after tucking his sweaty body into the bed, kissed his hair when he laid next to him. He pulled him close and Crowley held onto him. 

Crowley was quiet for a few minutes. He let Aziraphale stroke his hair and hum. He closed his eyes and pretended that they were in his bed at home, or in the bookshop. He pretended he hadn’t waited twenty years. He pretended that everything was alright. He hated himself for it.

“They’ll say I killed her,” whispered Crowley. 

“We’ll show them they’re wrong if they do.”

“They’ll want to kill me. They won’t be reasoned with.”

“I’ll take care of you.” 

“I’m just trouble, angel.”

“Not to me.” 

Crowley’s heart hurt. 

“You might get caught in the midst of things. What if I hurt you? I could never forgive myself.”

Aziraphale kissed him again and again, soft and so full of love he could break. 

“I am going to look after you, don’t worry. I’m here to look after you.”

Crowley said nothing more then. He let himself forget Anathema’s words. He believed Aziraphale, and he shut out his doubts. He sunk into the feeling of Aziraphale’s fingers raking through his hair. He listened to the steady beat of Aziraphale’s heart. He fell into a dreamless sleep, smiling and still at last. 

~~~

Miles away, a hound howled into the night. He’d found a scrap of black cloth ripped onto a branch. It was delicate and layered in expensive black lace that had begun to fray. 

Crowley and Aziraphale slept in one another’s arms, Anathema and Newt watched the moon, and the hounds neared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for crying during sex. Borderline a mini anxiety attack in the middle. Also, do not use strange kitchen substances as lube. This is fiction. 
> 
> 1\. Yes I paraphrased Orestes. I am a sucker for it. Spot it where you can! I also quoted the Sheen from an interview or something.  
> 2\. This was originally a LOT raunchier. I have not written smut in a very long time.  
> 3\. Anathema and Newt can probably hear them. They probably fist bump about it. Newt probably owes her a few coins.  
> 4\. I want to just state that neither Crowley nor Aziraphale will die in this story.  
> 5\. That being said, this story is about to take a very, very sad turn, so strap in. Happy ending promised. I like happy endings.
> 
> Comments make my world go round!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite short!! I have more time to write, so next chapter should be up within a week!

Anathema awoke with a shrill, blood-curdling scream. Newt was by her side immediately, holding her, checking between her thighs in fear that her water had broken. “No, not that,” she wailed. “It’s not the baby.” 

“What, what?” Newt stroked her hair and pulled her against his body. 

“Oh, Newt.” She looked up at him, terror stricken, with tears streaming down her red cheeks. 

“Yes? You can tell me.” 

“Something horrible, something  _ beastly  _ is going to happen. I dreamt it, I did…”

“Shh…” Newt kissed her sweaty forehead and dried her tears with his sleeve. “It could be wrong.” 

He didn’t ask anymore what the dreams were. Neither of them ever pieced together how they translated to real life. 

Anathema smiled a dreadful smile. “It isn’t, though.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

~~~

Aziraphale woke up to the warmth of Crowley’s body gone from his side. He cracked his eyes open to find that it was still dark outside. Crowley stood hunched over the bedside table. He was dressed. Aziraphale reached for him. 

“Crowley? Come back to bed. It’s still dark.”

Crowley looked at him, startled. Then he smiled. He kissed Aziraphale’s forehead. “I have to do something first, angel.” 

Aziraphale tugged the quilted blanket further up his body. “Lay next to me. I miss your warmth.” 

"Hmm, sounds tempting." Crowley kissed him, deep and gentle. He hummed and kissed Crowley back. How he’d waited to be able to do this, to indulge in a simple kiss from the man he loved. 

Then Crowley parted, and murmured something about checking on Bentley. Crowley gave him an odd look. Wistful. Sad. Must be the stress, thought Aziraphale. Crowley kissed him again, and again. The odd look worried Aziraphale for only a moment before he lost interest in the rain of soft kisses to his face. Every kiss left in its wake a new part of his face that blushed a shy pink. 

“How lucky I am…” Aziraphale beamed up at Crowley, eyes shining. In the darkness, only the silhouette of his face showed. He’d put his lenses back on.

Crowley took his hand and held it tight. “I waited so long to have you, Aziraphale. I waited for my entire life.” Aziraphale heard him sigh. “I’d wait a million lifetimes for you.” Aziraphale giggled. 

“Silly, that. You have me now, Crowley. My darling.” No point in remembering the miserable past. 

Crowley squeezed his hand. “I’ll return.” He stood and tied a thick cape around his neck, which Aziraphale thought odd as he didn’t wear a cape last night. “I love you. So very much.”

“I love you too.” He watched the hood glide over long red locks, concealing his face and hair. 

“Don’t wait up.” Then, he was gone.

Aziraphale did, in fact, wait up. He kept a hand on the warm spot Crowley had slept. He hummed a pleasant tune he’d heard a lute player in the village square strum last week. He waited up until the spot had grown long cold. He realized that he didn’t hear rustling outside anymore. He stopped humming.

Aziraphale crawled out of the bed. He yanked on his pants and shirt, and stepped into still-damp leather shoes that squelched when he walked. The house was still and dark, and when he stepped outside, only crickets pierced the thick morning silence. “Crowley?”

No sign of him. Aziraphale’s heart began to race. 

“Crowley!” He circled the garden several times. He searched the meadow around the house. No sign of Crowley or Bentley.

Time seemed to move too fast. He was calling out Crowley’s name, again and again. He fell to his knees in a dizzy spell that tilted the world on its axis. The apple trees above him loomed in dark, menacing shrouds. Aziraphale felt Newt more than saw him, running to his side and dragging him kicking and screaming back indoors. Fat tears dripped down his face as Newt told him,  _ Oh dear, he’s not told you, but they’ve found him, he wanted to keep you safe, and the baby safe, and dear he should have told you but oh, he’s certainly not coming back, oh please, you must stop crying _ —

Aziraphale found himself back on the bed. The thin mattress was cold to the touch now, even in the summer heat. His ears rang. He thought he remembered asking Newt to leave, but it was just as likely that Newt had felt out of place and excused himself. He got to his feet and swayed. He made the bed, meticulously and with shaking hands. He fluffed the pillows and collapsed on the bed in a heap, gasping for air through his whimpers and hiccups

Aziraphale rubbed his sleeve against his face and pulled it away wet with tears. Once he’d cleared his vision, he squinted at the bedside table and saw the ring shining in the first meager rays of morning light. He picked it up, turned it around in his fingers. Crowley never parted with it. He put it on. It fit on his pinky finger. 

**_“_ ** _ Crowley, I’m not a doll of yours to dress up.” _

_ “I know, angel. It’s just for fun. There, look how dashing you look in gold.” _

_ “Highly inappropriate. If someone walked in _ —”

“ _ No one will walk in on me. Now, a finishing touch. Careful, it belonged to my mother.” _

_ “It’s lovely. Oh, it fits just right.” _

_ “Mmh.” _

He banished the memory in a blink.

He picked up the note next. The paper was wrinkled, as though someone had folded it many times. He opened the paper and smoothed out the lines. Crowley’s handwriting. Crowley’s signature. 

Aziraphale read the note, once, then twice. 

He hurled it onto the table and collapsed onto the bed in a mess of broken wails.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed my sooooul


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took much longer than I had hoped! Life does sometimes just throw you for a loop. Then writing doesn't feel so easy.

_ Ten years later.  _

Aziraphale woke up before dawn had broken, when the dew was fresh and the summer air crisp. He sat up in bed and blinked into the darkness of the room as he stretched. Later, the August sun would wring every drop of moisture out of the gardens, so he had to water his plants before that happened. He crawled off his mattress and pulled on thick pants and a cotton shirt. Over this, he wore a long white tunic. He stopped for a moment to light a few candles. He could now see his reflection in a small standing mirror. He donned woolen socks and brown boots and brushed out his white curls with a wooden comb. 

The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon. Every morning, Aziraphale was out at dawn to water the plants that needed watering. Not only was it good for the plants, it was good for his mind. It gave him a routine to look forward to every day.

Ten years had passed, stretched out like eons. Ten years of sleepless nights and stopping anyone in the street with red hair. Ten years of following up on false leads and wild goose chases around the country (and on one memorable occasion, in southern France) for the missing Prince, who had escaped from prison and vanished. After ten years, he had nothing to show for his efforts. 

Aziraphale crossed the short distance through the tall grass from his small home to the gardens he cared for. It was a relatively small property, but there was still much to be done. He did the watering first, starting at the flowers and ending with the root vegetables. By the time he was finished the watering, dawn had properly begun. He began to prune and pick what he had to. He fell into a steady rhythm. He began to hum a pleasant lute song. 

All day, Aziraphale busied his hands, and by effect, busied his mind. He plucked three fennel bulbs and a lovely parsnip for himself, which he placed in a woven basket. He only needed to drop his apron off at the shed before he could start to make his dinner. 

Aziraphale saw the master of the grounds off in the distance playing with his son in the field. His wife sat under a standing parasol, reading a thick novel. The boy stopped and picked up his ball. He had short black and big owlish eyes. He waved at Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiled and waved back. 

Life could be worse. He repeated those four words like a sacred mantra all day, hunched over his knees and praying to a God he had begun to doubt that  _ I know that life could be worse, but couldn’t it be better as well? _

It was only in the past few months that his feelings began to change. The mornings felt crisp and peaceful again. Food brought him joy once more. He stopped to admire his work in the garden more often. He was starting to feel happy again, in little tear shaped drops throughout his life. He held onto that joy like a lifeline.

He’d only just begun to accept that Crowley was no longer a part of his life, but a memory. Certainly his favourite memory. But only that. Nothing had brought him as much peace as giving up hope of seeing him ever again. No amount of crying over it was going to bring him back. 

Still, he thought to himself as he entered his home and set down his basket. Still. Wouldn’t it be nice if that was all it took. If the tears of a lover could summon him like a sacrifice to a deity. He’d been reading too much Greek mythology.

He stroked the fennel. “Would be nice to have a nice bit of meat in the soup,” he murmured to himself. He changed out of his dirty clothes and into a clean outfit, all white and prim. He toed on clean leather shoes. He gathered enough money to buy himself a chunk of lamb and headed out of his home once again. 

The walk into the village, though long, was paved with wildflowers and green meadows. He passed a grove of apple trees that blocked the beating sun for a few minutes. Out of the grass, a garden snake darted out. Aziraphale stumbled, nearly having stepped on it. It was a vibrant yellow, and it was gone in an instant through the grove of trees. 

Aziraphale took a few steadying breaths. He did not think about Crowley or his absolute fascination with snakes. He did not think about Crowley at all. 

Aziraphale hummed to himself until the sounds of the village in the evening drowned out his gentle song. People bustled around him in no particular fashion, a random frenzy of people with individual missions. He kept a hand wrapped tightly around his wallet. 

Aziraphale knew the spices seller, and the newsboys waving their papers around in loud advertisement. He knew the ladies that ran the fruit stands, and the gentleman who had been trying to sell his old cow for quite some time. He greeted them with waves and smiles.

“Alright, John?” Called a young man in a dusty apron and a baker’s cap. He had a pleasant smile.

“Hello, Will,” replied Aziraphale. 

“Off work for the day?” 

“For the evening, yes.” 

“I’ve got some day old loaves left over, if y’like.”

“Oh, that would be splendid!” It would go perfectly with his stew. 

Aziraphale, or John as the villagers knew him, followed the baker Will into his bakery where he was handed a sack containing one marble rye loaf and a few soft brown buns. “Feels like something’s brewin’, don’t it?” 

Aziraphale frowned. “How so?” 

The man looked embarrassed. They’d never spoken past a few polite greetings and the exchange of bread, and once, a bouquet of flowers for Will’s pregnant wife. “Like the Lord is about to say something. Like the world’s holdin’ it’s breath and about to let go. Feels like somethin’s gonna happen. Y’know?”

Aziraphale smiled. “No.” He paused, thinking of a way out of the conversation. “Perhaps you’ll be having another child. Third, is it?” 

“God willing.” Will looked a bit less nervous now. 

“It’ll be alright.” Aziraphale clutched the sack of bread at his side. “Well, thank you, but I really should be getting along now.” 

“Mind how you go,” said Will. 

Aziraphale smiled a polite smile, nodded, and walked out the door. 

He didn’t believe in trusting his gut anymore. He didn’t trust hunches, or suspicions. He knew how that always ended.

The butcher’s shop was just a short walk away. Aziraphale took those few minutes to breathe and focus on anything but the dreaded stupid hope in his chest. 

Not everyone was like Anathema. Not everyone was right. 

Remembering her name sent a cruel, cold chill down his spine.

The door to the butcher’s shop opened with the ring of a bell. The air was stiff with the stench of meat and salt. The man at the counter, Arthur, helped Aziraphale select a cut of dried salted meat and rang him up.

“Interestin’ ring,” said the butcher as he took Aziraphale’s money. 

“Oh, it’s not mine. Holding it for a friend.” 

“Hm.”

Aziraphale left the store with the paper-wrapped parcel in hand. It was only midday, and he didn’t need to do anything else, really. He was growing hungry, though. He fished around his wallet; he could afford a meal out. A pick-me-up before he retired to his small, quiet, and empty home. 

Aziraphale walked into his favourite place to eat, the Clover Pub. It was a quaint red brick building with a picture of a clover painted onto a white board that hung on the door. Wasn’t much choice in as small a village as this for food but pubs. There was a restaurant, but the bread was always burnt and the food was plain and boring, with little flavor. Really, opening his own restaurant wasn’t such a terrible idea. He could spend the day cooking, and by effect, eating—

“Oh! Do excuse me, miss!” 

He reached out to help up the woman he had bumped into. She waved his hand away, and only as she wobbled to her feet did he notice the bandages. Her eyes were obscured in a thick layer of yellowing gauze, down to the tip of her nose. She wore a hooded cloak, and her skin was pale and sickly. 

Syphilis, common as it was, still made him nervous. No one knew how easily it was transmitted. He’d seen people with holes in their skin and bloody welts, and fogged over eyes, walking around like the dead had risen from their graves in dirty clothes and aching limbs. He dropped his hand back to his side, clutching his bread.

She stood a bit taller than him. She grabbed onto the back of the chair with one hand and the head of a black cane with the other, and looked a bit left of his direction. 

“Are you alright? You landed on your back there.”

She stiffened. Aziraphale shifted uneasily. 

“If you’ve hurt something, er, I do apologize, I wasn’t watching—”

“ _ Shut up, _ ” she hissed. She seethed in his direction with sharp gritted teeth. She took a step back. Then, abruptly as she appeared, she turned and stormed off.

It was then that Aziraphale saw it. The way she walked, no,  _ strode _ across the room. 

“Wait!” 

She turned, and the motion dragged her hood down her face just enough. No one else noticed; no one bothered to look at a diseased vagrant. Aziraphale saw it though. Just beside her ear, a black scribble. 

He didn’t dare utter the name in public. It was still the name of an alleged murderer.

“Please, I know you!”

Crowley whipped around and disappeared into the sea of people. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely beta Chocolatecat101!
> 
> Comments and kudos feed my writing mechanism


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thiqens... and a character returns. things slowly begin to fall together...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the late update, uni life has me dead!! Bless my wonderful beta because I would not have posted this without them. I hope y'all enjoy this chapter! Also, there are biblical references to the David and Jonathan relationship hehee can you spot them? We love a good biblical parallel in a Good Omens fic.

When Crowley woke up that morning, he was alone. He opened his eyes just a crack from behind his threadbare blanket. No one. He blinked and sat up in bed. He stretched from side to side, his bones cracking in relief. Crowley sat by the tiny window in his room and watched the stunning orange sunrise in a rare moment of vision. He felt warm in the light. 

Crowley had stolen a loaf of bread from the bakery when the baker stepped out for a morning smoke and was only a little hungry by evening. He bumped into only a few people (the cane he had stolen two cities back helped), and no one tried to talk to him. He even found a few coins dropped on the ground and decided he would treat himself to a hot meal for the first time in months. 

His day was going swell. 

But Crowley had found that a good day for him never lasted. If he had a good morning, a guard would harass him at night. If he’d made good money in the evening, then the morning that followed would find him homeless or robbed. In hindsight, he should have been ready for something to send his good day to a startling halt.

Crowley was not as experienced at walking blind in a crowded area. A band of merchants must be passing through, he reasoned with himself as he pushed through noisy, drunk people in the pub. 

He wasn’t paying attention as well as he could have been. An elbow caught him in the throat, just hard enough to wind him and shove him flat on his back on the dirty floor, gasping for breath.

“Are you alright?”

Crowley froze where he lay. His breath hitched. He couldn’t move. Blood rushed to his ears. 

“If you’ve hurt something, er, I do apologize, I wasn’t watching—”

Aziraphale spoke in his sweet proper tone in that way he did when he spoke to an angry client or more likely, an angry Beelzebub. His hair was a tousled halo that Crowley could vaguely make out behind the sheer layers of gauze. 

_ An angel _ , thought Crowley,  _ is hovering over me. It can’t be Aziraphale. It’s just an angel. _

Crowley wanted to vomit. He wanted to screech like a banshee and run away. He did the next best thing. 

“ _ Shut up. _ ” He held his cane tightly to his chest, his hand aching in a searing flash of pain. He jumped to his feet and stumbled towards the door. His cane smacked against chair legs in his rush. He tilted his head down to see through the bandages and find the door.

This wasn’t safe. He had to find a ride and get out of this city as soon as possible, and get as far away from Aziraphale as possible. 

“Wait!” 

On muscle memory, he turned towards the voice like a fly to honey, starved for ten years. He’d forgotten what Aziraphale’s voice sounded like after all those years. It was so gentle, even screaming across a noisy room with agony lacing that single word. 

Crowley felt his cloak slip. The humid air of the pub burned his exposed skin before he could pull it back. A flash of red hair. A snake tattoo beneath his ear. He felt naked in his cloak and gauze, and pulled the hood over his head, but not before Aziraphale saw. 

“Please, I know you!” 

He’d made a promise to keep Aziraphale safe, no matter what. A cheat and a bastard he was, but a liar Crowley was not. 

But the temptation burned and left him open mouthed and panting. He wanted to stay. He wanted to go back into the arms of Aziraphale, to tell him he was safe and they could be together once more. 

_ I don’t want to go _ , he screamed in his mind. 

Crowley whipped around and rushed into the evening crowd of city-goers. He ran and bumped into people until his weak lungs ached and the bottoms of his feet bled.

He returned to his part of the city. No one followed him. 

Crowley ignored the tears that wet the front of his bandages until he had safely tripped into his temporary living situation. He had a small bed and little else in the cramped room. It never really stayed clean, even when he did clean it carefully. Dust always settled in layers on the sparse wardrobe. 

Crowley shrugged off the cape, locked his door, and pulled the bandages off in a huff. He flung himself onto the mattress and curled up as tight as he could as he stewed in his misery. He cried until he had no tears left to cry and a wet spot formed on his pillow. 

What could he do? He had nowhere else to go. There wasn’t a corner of Europe that didn’t have people still looking for him. Borders had checkpoints now. He’d narrowly escaped capture with every move he made. That rendezvous in France on an attempted trip to the Ottoman Empire had been his most disastrous attempt at a disappearance, as he did not speak French. 

He couldn’t leave. He’d exhausted every option in the past ten years. 

A knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. “Tonia!” Called the deep voice of a man. 

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself. “I’ll be down, I’ll pay it today!” 

“Wasn’t a question unless you want me to toss you out. Fuckin’ walk in like you own the room! Pay or get out!” Crowley grew pale. He had to come up with the money to pay for his room, somehow. 

“I know, I know.” He waited until the heavy footsteps receded. 

Ten years ago, Aziraphale had been the one getting kicked out of his home. It felt horrible knowing now the fear that Aziraphale must have experienced every time Gabriel sent guards to kick him out. 

Crowley closed his eyes as a headache began to throb. He thought of Aziraphale.

_ “Have you heard the story of King David and Jonathan?” _

_ “I’m a Prince. Of course I have.” Crowley had his head in Aziraphale’s lap, staring up at the blue sky while Aziraphale read Walt Whitman. The early autumn breeze tousled his wild white locks. The grass beneath Crowley’s neck tickled. _

_ “I think of them often.” Aziraphale set the book down and stroked Crowley’s hair. Crowley did his best not to show how much he adored the motion, but his eyes still fluttered. “I have yet to come across a purer love.” _

_ Crowley considered this. “God is supposed to love all his creations. Thought you believed in that, Aziraphale.”  _

_ “Ah, I do.” Aziraphale looked down at Crowley with a smile brighter than the glow of his hair, and Crowley’s breath hitched.  _

_ “So why is theirs purer?”  _

_ Aziraphale shrugged. “It’s a different kind of love.” _

Crowley blinked the memory away. 

As a personal rule, he no longer believed in God. All hope in holy love had long since abandoned him. 

He wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve and took a shuddering breath. His stomach growled, and he ignored it as he reached under his mattress for a tiny dog-eared book consisting mainly of poems by Lord Byron, and a few momentos he had tucked between the pages. Besides his cane, it was the only belonging Crowley had in his life. Also like Like his cane, he had also stolen it.

Crowley reclined on the uncomfortable bed and squirmed into a more tolerable position on his back. He sniffled. He found his page, the tragic poem  _ When We Two Parted _ , and began to read himself into an evening nap. 

When he woke up an hour later with the book draped over his face, he had devised a plan.

/

Aziraphale didn’t return home until well after dark, when the people left out on the streets made him nervous. He’d spent hours searching for Crowley. He had nothing to show for his efforts but sore feet and an empty belly. He couldn’t even ask around if anyone had seen him, because if anyone suspected that Crowley was in town, it’d be crawling with the royal guard in moments and Crowley would be caught and killed. 

The walk home more closely resembled a hobble. He hadn’t sat since morning. His body was tired. His heart was tired. A good sleep, he decided, was just what he needed. He would feel better in the morning, maybe. 

Aziraphale stepped into his empty cottage and shut the door. The floorboards creaked as he placed his unused salted meat on the counter and stowed the bag of bread in a wooden box. He stripped in the darkness of the bedroom and flopped onto his bed, groaning at the sweet relief of a soft surface. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and hummed. He needed to consider what had happened in the past few hours.

He  _ knew  _ that it was Crowley. That tattoo had been given to him by a passing Chinese merchant’s wife as a ruse to make Gabriel angry after entirely too many rude comments about Crowley’s eyes. It was inappropriate and unsightly, and had been quite the scandal thirty years ago when Crowley clipped his hair short so it would be visible to the royal courts. 

It had to be Crowley. The walk, too. Crowley had earned many a stern talking to from those in the royal court about the way he walked. Too  _ much _ , they had told him.  _ Don’t saunter, you’re not a whore, not a woman at all.  _ Crowley had always been too much to everyone. Not to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale rolled over to the other side of his bed, where he kept three hip-height stacks of assorted books. Aziraphale was not picky about the books that he read, and was more concerned about expanding his collection whenever possible. Currently, he was making his way through The Life and Death of Doctor Faustus. He  didn'tdid’n really like it. not very much like it. 

“Ah!” Aziraphale selected a thick volume on tropical plants and wiggled it out from the bottom of a stack. He leafed through the pages until he found a wrinkled sheet of paper pressed between the weight of the books. It was tucked into the spine enough that one could only find it if they knew exactly what page to look. It hadn’t changed in ten years, save for the yellowing of the paper over time and the smudge of the ink, as though someone had wrinkled and smoothed it over and over again.

Aziraphale didn’t read the letter so much as recite it from memory now. The first few months after Crowley had disappeared, Aziraphale would read it every night religiously and struggle to dissect every fragment and letter, every comma and word. He heard Crowley’s voice reading it until he had forgotten what his voice sounded like. He could imagine Crowley scrambling to pen it hunched over the bed in a frenzy until he forgot what Crowley looked like. Those memories had vividly come home to the forefront of his imagination. He shivered.

The passage of time did nothing to ease the ache of Aziraphale’s heart. He never got to say goodbye.

He placed the paper between the pages of the heavy book and slipped it under an anthology of short stories and a book on Greek history. He rolled over again and yanked a thin grey blanket over his shoulders. Aziraphale slept fitfully that night. He woke several times in a cold sweat at the crack of a branch or a rustle in the wind. He was terrorized by fear fuelled nightmares. 

Where could Crowley have gone? What if he disappeared in the night? Oh, what if he simply didn’t  _ want  _ to be found? What if he didn’t want Aziraphale anymore? 

A knock woke Aziraphale in the faintest hours of the morning. He started. 

Aziraphale kicked his slippers on and shuffled out of his bedroom. His head pounded. The cottage was still dark. He creaked the door open, inviting in the sound of early morning crickets.

“Anathema?”

Anathema wore a blue floor length coat and had grown her hair past her waist. She smiled in that alluring way of hers. She stood tall in confidence with dark bags under her eyes.

“I must speak with you, Aziraphale. Oh, I’ve brought a gift.” She held out a clear jar of caramel coloured whip. “Apple butter. Made it myself.” 

Aziraphale glanced down at the jar. He took it from her, unsure. “Why are you here?” He didn’t mean to sound so bitter. Anathema’s smile faltered.

“I have a prophecy.”

“You had a prophecy ten years ago. Why tell me this one, then?” He did not look up from the jar of apple butter. He was tired, and hungry.

“Aziraphale, if I had understood what was happening…” 

“Come in. I don’t want to discuss it further.” He stepped aside to let her in, then shut the door behind her. She took a seat at the wooden kitchen table, and Aziraphale settled across from her. He planted the apple butter between them. 

“Must have been difficult for you to find me. How long does it take you to travel here?” 

Anathema looked sheepish. “I caught a ride from a merchant yesterday morning. I’m meant to be finished all my errands by noon.” 

“It must be something serious for you to have come this way, then.” Aziraphale looked at her, unblinking and full of dread. 

“It is.” She hesitated, squirming in her seat. It was unlike her to be nervous. “You saw Crowley.” 

A beat of silence. Aziraphale’s breath hitched. 

“You know?” 

“Oh, Aziraphale.” She reached across the table to take his trembling hands. “I really think I do. Ten years ago, when you and Crowley graced my doorstep, I had a dream. It was the night before you arrived. I dreamed that someone was wandering with their eyes wrapped up in a deserted city. At the time, I was worried it was you. I warned Crowley not to be reckless. I never considered that I had dreamed of his future.” She paused. “That was him, wasn’t it? A figure wandering blindly.” 

Aziraphale swallowed a heavy lump. “Yes,” he admitted. 

Anathema beamed. “Then where is he?” 

Aziraphale struggled to find an even  rhythm tempo of breath. He stared at the jar as though it would speak for him. Anathema squeezed his hands. He shrugged with a watery smile and said in a broken voice, “Don’t know. He ran when he saw me.”

Anathema frowned in thought. ”I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale sniffled. “How did you know I would see him? Your dream was ten years ago.” 

“My daughter had the same dream.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Your daughter has the dreams now? And do tell me, what exactly did she dream?”

“Julietta dreamed that a man with his eyes wrapped in white and his hands bloodied walked an empty road into a garden.” 

Aziraphale sputtered and yanked his hands away from Anathema. 

“Your daughter dreamed of Jesus. You’ve got this entire ordeal mixed up with something else.” 

“You think we go to church?” Anathema laughed. “The man was the same. I know he was. Besides, you saw him, so she was right. You believe in God, Aziraphale. The prophecies aren’t for me. I’m not meant to understand them all, don’t you see? This dream was for you to understand, and you do understand it. Think, what could this mean? This could be a good thing!”

“Why should I even believe you after what you did?” Demanded Aziraphale, growing frustrated. “And how is this supposed to help me at all? I should be at work. I should finish my work and go look for him in a proper way.” 

Anathema rose from the table. She smiled still, and that made Aziraphale feel like a monster. “When you look for him,” she said in a soft voice, “it may help to look at the hands of those who pass. Look for gloves or scars. It will ease your search. I am never wrong, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale considered this. She had hurt him in the past. Then again, no one forced her to come all this way to deliver the news of a dream to Aziraphale. As much doubt as he held in his he forced himself to take a deep breath. He nodded. “Okay,” he said, quieter now. “Thank you.” 

“I’m trying to right what I did. I hope you forgive me one day.” 

Aziraphale smiled as best as he could. “Some wrongs cannot be righted. Some acts must remain unforgiven. But you can be a good person every day, and that is just as good.” He felt a heavy weight lifted from his heart. “You have goodness in your heart despite what happened. You and Newton both.”

“I hope you enjoy the apple butter. I promised Crowley that you would try it.” 

“Then I know I will love it.” 

Anathema left as dawn broke. Aziraphale changed into a clean set of clothing. He brushed his hair in the little mirror, but today he could not tame it. He ate some of the bread from yesterday with a heaping spoonful of apple butter (he did love it), and. He walked out of his cottage just as dawn broke. He made his way walked into his garden and tied an apron on from the shed. He went over made his way to the English rose bushes with plans to water and weed them. 

Aziraphale did not get to water his roses. He stood stock still in front of them instead, eyes wide and breath leaving him in hyperventilating gasps.

Tacked onto a long thorn on the largest rosebush was a slip of paper. It had been ripped out of a book, neat poetry typed onto one side and scratchy writing on the other. 

_ Baker’s lane. The broken lamp post. Midnight. _

_ J.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos feed the writing mechanism... feed

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta chocolatecat101!


End file.
